


Still Life with Agents

by manic_intent



Series: Invariant Failures [2]
Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, M/M, That fic about the further adventures of Chupacabra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 17:17:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12370353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: “On my signal.”“Is this truly necessary?”Whiskey sighed. “D’you wanna help or not? You said you wanted to help.”“I have standing reservations about this plan,” Harry said defensively. “That’s all. It needs more thought.”“Right, well, you keep your reservations to yourself. On mark. Mark!” Whiskey grabbed the sleeping orange ball of fur on the couch. Harry hastily wrapped the cat in a thick towel even as, outraged, Chupacabra snapped awake with a yowl of fury.





	Still Life with Agents

**Author's Note:**

> I was actually writing this sequel a few days after Moral Failures, but deadlines caught up, so I only just got around to finishing it.

“On my signal.”

“Is this truly necessary?” 

Whiskey sighed. “D’you wanna help or not? You said you wanted to help.”

“I have standing reservations about this plan,” Harry said defensively. “That’s all. It needs more thought.” 

“Right, well, you keep your reservations to yourself. On mark. Mark!” Whiskey grabbed the sleeping orange ball of fur on the couch. Harry hastily wrapped the cat in a thick towel even as, outraged, Chupacabra snapped awake with a yowl of fury. “Okay. Just. Hold him still.” 

“He’s never going to forgive me,” Harry said sadly, as Chupacabra hissed and spat and kicked at the towel and howled bloody murder at a surprising volume for such a small animal. Whiskey carefully held the cat’s head, brushing his sharp, yellowed teeth with a tiny cat toothbrush. Chupacabra glared up at them both, murderous, abruptly silent. “Do you think he’s starting to suffocate? He’s going quiet.”

“Nope. Don’t fall for it. It’s a trap. You let him go now, he’ll go for your last eye. All right, you little monster. It’s going to be over soon, agueonado.” Chupacabra twisted angrily in Whiskey’s grip as Whiskey tried to scrub his back teeth.

“Maybe the problem is that you keep calling him names,” Harry told him sternly. “Animals can be very sensitive to negativity.” 

“Oh yeah? Your fucking dog knows how sensitive this motherf—ouch!” Chupacabra had somehow managed to bite Whiskey hard on the thumb. Behind the bathroom door, Mister Kippers peeked out worriedly, then ducked away as Chupacabra growled, muffled. Whiskey pried his finger free, bleeding gently over cat, couch, and Harry’s towel as he brushed the rest of Chupacabra’s teeth.

“Couldn’t you have gotten some vet to do his dental? Maybe with sedation? It’s not as though you can’t afford it. It might be less traumatic for everyone.”

“You think he’s angry now? Wait till he realizes he’s been taken to the vet. I think he knows one of them took his balls and he’s never forgiven no animal doctor for the insult. There we go. Okay. You let him go on three, and take a step back.” 

Chupacabra wriggled free from the towel, spat, shook a paw at them both, and stalked off towards the balcony, tail stiff. Mister Kippers edged hopefully out of the bathroom, forever optimistic about the possible receipt of friendly overtures, but scuttled away hastily as Chupacabra hissed. Satisfied, the cat padded off, occasionally pausing to shake a paw in disgust.

The bleeding stopped after a while. Whiskey waved away band-aids as he settled on the couch with a laptop over his knees, checking his emails. Harry coaxed Mister Kippers out of the bathroom and sank into an armchair, the puppy on his lap, picking up the morning’s copy of the New York Times. The headlines, as usual, were fairly depressing. Brexit was in progress, the Republicans were trying to repeal healthcare for the nth time, North Korea was still sabre rattling, and far-right parties were seeping into power across the globe. 

“Don’t you have a house to rebuild?” Whiskey asked. 

Harry lowered his newspaper. Whiskey was concentrating on his laptop, but when Harry didn’t immediately answer, he flicked a glance up. “You mean in London?” Harry said.

“You got other properties that were blown up recently?” 

Harry folded the paper. “If I’m intruding in any way—”

“Didn’t say that. It’s nice having a catsitter who isn’t put off by the risk of permanent scarring.”

“We’re both off active duty until Ginger finishes her study on psychotic breaks,” Harry said. “So I didn’t think it was necessary to return to London just as yet. But if I’m disturbing you, I’ve told you before, I’m happy to book into a hotel.”

“I said you’re welcome to stay as long as you like and I meant it,” Whiskey said, exasperated. “Fuck’s sake. This isn’t me trying to kick you out. I just thought. Aren’t you bored?”

“No?” 

“Okay,” Whiskey said dryly, “‘cos I got an email right here, from Champ, saying that someone, not naming names, broke into the Guggenheim last night.”

“Fascinating.”

“Nothing got stolen, but Ginger scrubbed some CCTV from across the street.”

He’d forgotten about that. “Ah, the inestimable Ginger.” 

“So what’s all that about, eh?” Whiskey narrowed his eyes.

Harry petted Mister Kippers. “The Guggenheim is hosting an exhibition about the Salon de la Rose+Croix.”

“And what, you’re too cheap to buy a ticket?” 

“Not at all. I did buy a ticket. I just prefer not to visit museums during visiting hours.” 

Whiskey went from lounging against a couch with a laptop to braced over Harry’s chair so quickly that Harry nearly struck him. His grip tightened reflexively over Mister Kippers. The puppy yelped, then squirmed and panted excitedly when Harry tickled its ears apologetically. Whiskey didn’t miss any of that, of course. He smiled, teeth bared. “So you’re bored.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’re British. You people have a weird way of complaining about things. Stiff upper lip, eh?”

“Have _you_ been to the Guggenheim?” 

“You don’t get to change the subject.” Whiskey paused. “Also, I thought the Met would be more your thing.”

“I’ve been to the Met.” 

“During visiting hours?”

Harry gave this due consideration. “No.”

Whiskey laughed. When he meant it, he had a gorgeous laugh, fierce and warm and wolfish, eyes crinkling, teeth flashing, both a warning and an invitation. Harry kissed him, because with Whiskey that was always an easy thing to do, felt Whiskey purr and press in and lick against his mouth. It was strange to think that only weeks ago, Harry had done his very best to end this handsome man’s life; that he would have done so and thought nothing of it. His next breath shook, and Whiskey laughed again.

“You think too much.” 

“That’s not a character flaw by any means.” 

“Look.” Whiskey kissed his glasses, over the black patch. “You’re not even the one who shot me the second time. Also, d’you really have to wear these things all the time? Pretty sure we’ve given Tech a serious eyeful.”

“It just got to be a habit. Merlin…” Harry trailed off, with a slow breath. _Merlin_. Harry should’ve insisted that Merlin stay with the plane, like Tech normally would. Even without the minefield, getting to Poppy had been a bloody, dangerous slog that Harry himself had barely survived. If Sir Elton John hadn’t intervened—

“People die,” Whiskey said, into the sober silence. “Fact is, Tech shouldn’t have been in the field. You know that. One junior agent and one senior agent should’ve been good enough for anything, if you guys are anything like us.”

“Eggsy was the one who stepped on the landmine.” 

“Yeah. You guys go into a mined area and only bring one detector and one temp disabler. _And_ you let the junior agent take point. Brilliant. Not laughing at your loss. Just stating a fact. Thing is,” Whiskey said, when Harry took in a soft breath, “shit happens. People make stupid decisions. Hell, I did, trying to take on the both of you in a fair fight.” He winked. 

“I did sense a touch of overconfidence in that endeavour.” 

“Just a touch,” Whiskey said, mimicking Harry’s accent again, though he didn’t smile. “Everyone makes bad decisions sometimes.” 

“One of my oldest friends died because of my decisions.” 

“Is that really what’s bothering you?” Whiskey asked, his voice going soft. When Harry didn’t answer, Whiskey tugged off his glasses, setting them aside, and shooed Mister Kippers off Harry’s lap, climbing on. “I know what it’s like, yeah? Feeling like you’re floating away. Like you’re all alone and there’s no point to anything anymore.” 

“For most of my life Kingsman _was_ my life,” Harry said, choosing his words with care. “Now it’s not, and… I’m not sure if I miss it.” 

“Champ said he’d fund the rebuilding effort in London. Been pushing for you to head back, in fact. Become London’s branch chief.”

“I know. He’s only raised it six times. I thought we’re both technically suspended.”

“From _active_ duty,” Whiskey said. “Boardroom and business stuff don’t figure. Maybe it’s not one of Champ’s greatest ideas, but fact is, Poppy gutted your London ops pretty fucking good. You guys got support staff left and nobody else.” 

“Becoming Arthur—the ‘branch chief’—was never in the cards for any agent.” Agents didn’t tend to survive to retirement age. Of everyone, Harry had come the closest. “I’ve never thought about it. Never had to handle a business. I wouldn’t know where to start.” 

“Champ will shunt Tequila over to London to help. Man’s been cooling his heels in Kentucky and it’s a goddamn waste. Yeah, I know, he looks like an extra from a bad Western, but he’s actually got a good head for numbers and a damned good nose for business.” Whiskey snickered. “Also, it’d be funny finally squeezing him into a suit.”

“Or you could come to London.” 

Whiskey’s amusement faded. He studied Harry curiously, stretching his arms over the back of the armchair, somehow managing to look debonair balanced over an older man’s lap. “London _suuuucks_.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“The weather, Jesus. I think that’s why you British once conquered so much of the world. Everyone’s just trying to escape the weather.”

“While New York is so terribly fragrant in the summer.” 

Whiskey grimaced. “Okay, I’ll give you that, but it’s not like London smells of roses all the time neither. Besides, I’ve no interest in taking a demotion. I’m the branch chief for the East Coast. Not so sure I wanna go from that to being your assistant in London.”

“I didn’t say that. I meant you could take over London.” 

This got him another gorgeous laugh, at least. “It’s still a demotion, my friend. Even if I end up being able to boss you around. I’m angling to take over Statesman one day. Gonna be a tough sell even from where I am now. Champ likes me fine but there are a hella lot of older white men between me and the CEO’s seat.” Whiskey kissed Harry playfully on the cheek, though the laughter wasn’t in his eyes. 

“Was that an observation or a warning?” 

“Both. Don’t get in my way. I worked hard to get to where I am. Got to shift the bottom line to get to where I want to be. Never enough just to be good. Got to be twice as good. And even then, this country?” Whiskey looked over at the balcony, where Chupacabra had long made himself scarce. “Always got to watch your back in this country.”

“Is it that bad?” Harry asked. He hadn’t been to the USA save on business, and with business, it was always quick. 

“Not for you,” Whiskey conceded. “Nobody’s gonna stop you when you’re driving, for dumbass reasons, just to see if you’ve got ID. Nobody tells you to go back to your country when you’re in line in a fucking Starbucks.” He grinned, sharkish and humourless. “I’m rich and have it good. Hasn’t always been the case. I keep that memory close and don’t forget. The things I did to get here, the things done to me that got me here.” 

“That’s a bitter way to live,” Harry said, though he pulled Whiskey closer, folded that elegant, long-limbed body awkwardly against his frame and the couch. Whiskey kissed him, pressed flush, thumbs teasing lightly over Harry’s cheekbones. 

“Y’all didn’t do us a favour when you blew up the previous President and his cabinet,” Whiskey said, as he hooked his fingertips impishly into Harry’s tie. “New election swept all the crazy people out into the open.”

“The new President got impeached over the Poppy matter.”

“Ooh yes, and his Veep got the spot.” Whiskey rolled his eyes. “Mister Electroshock Therapy for Gays. Yeah, love that guy to bits.” 

“All the more reason to come to London.” Harry undid Whiskey’s belt buckle, tugging the belt off with a whispery sound of leather. “Can we move? To the bedroom?” 

“Armchair too bad for your back?” Whiskey smirked. “We could fuck in the pool.” 

“In the _open_?” 

“We’re on top of a building.”

“As though planes haven’t been invented. Or helicopters.”

“Nobody’s gonna be flying this close,” Whiskey said, and he had a wicked grin that Harry now recognised, promising mayhem. He’d seen that smile in a bar in Kentucky, paired with a swagger, seen it reflected in a mirror, Whiskey braced over the sink. Whiskey tucked his fingers around Harry’s tie. “You’re a funny one. Dressed up with nowhere to go. Are you just like this all the time?” He ran his hand up Harry’s crisp shirt, rucking up its clean lines, stroking over his ribs. 

A good suit had always been his armour when Harry had felt unsettled or lost, Harry didn’t say. He smiled instead, and let Whiskey pull them over to the penthouse garden. They locked Mister Kippers in the apartment and Harry murmured protests as Whiskey tugged them into a sprawl over the turf. They kissed beside the pool, shedding clothes, the sun warm on Harry’s back. “Really a bad idea,” Harry said, as Whiskey’s mouth nudged up against his throat. 

“The best idea,” Whiskey disagreed, and rubbed the heel of his palm pointedly against Harry’s thickening cock. “ _Someone’s_ excited. Dirty old man.”

“We’re going to get grass stains everywhere.” Harry said. He hauled Whiskey against him, tangling his fingers into thick hair, breathing in. Whiskey always smelled good. Warm. Alive. Harry buried his mouth against his temple, and Whiskey stilled when Harry’s next breath caught into a small gasp. 

“Okay there?” Whiskey asked, quiet, and allowed Harry to tuck them together, flank to flank. Harry breathed unsteadily, squeezing his eye shut. He really had lost everyone. Even Eggsy. 

“I don’t even know your real name,” Harry said, when he was sure that his voice wasn’t going to crack. He stroked the back of Whiskey’s neck. “And I’m fairly sure it’s not really ‘Jack Daniels’.” 

Whiskey laughed. “Is your name really ‘Harry Hart’?” 

“It’s close enough.” 

“There you go,” Whiskey said, nuzzling Harry’s throat. Harry could feel a playful grin curled against his skin. “Mine’s close enough too.” 

“Why didn’t you just pick a Chilean brand of whiskey?” 

“I wasn’t born in Chile. I was born here. Besides, ‘Jack Daniels’ is pretty funny.”

“And the top selling brand of American whiskey in the world?” 

“Ooh, someone finally did his homework. Getting into the swing of things, maybe?” Whiskey gently pressed Harry onto his back, squirming on top. He wasn’t fully hard, and he didn’t push. “We can go back inside, if you want.” 

“No. This is quite all right.” Harry petted Whiskey’s back, stroking up and down his spine, easing fingertips over scarred muscle. Whiskey stared at him for a long moment, then he settled down, cheek pressed to Harry’s shoulder. He was heavy, but Harry was grateful for that. Kindness was a rarity in the life Harry had chosen to lead, and he wasn’t ashamed to accept it wherever he found it.

#

Harry went back to London, because duty was what he was used to, and the world as it was still needed Kingsman. Besides, there were widows’ funds to arrange and pay out, for the relatives of those killed by Poppy’s blasts. Harry had resolved that there was enough tragedy. No one needed to be made destitute by deaths in the family.

Eggsy popped by the new shop once, with Princess Tilde in tow. They were glowing with happiness, about to start the second leg of their honeymoon. Harry had smiled and wished them well and was relieved to note, afterwards, that it hadn’t hurt as much as he’d thought it would. He was too busy for it to hurt, maybe. Filling the ranks. Getting used to the new Merlin.

The Merlin in question was a friend of a friend of Eggsy’s, a skinny, curly-haired young man with a penchant for hideous sweaters, but he took well enough to the role. In a way. “I really don’t think the poison heel knives and the tactical umbrellas are terribly necessary. They’re rather, ah, campy, wouldn’t you say.” 

Behind his desk, Harry raised his eyebrows. Beside Merlin, stuffed into a new suit and looking uncomfortable, Tequila sighed. “See what us agents are dealin’ with?” 

“You get along perfectly fine without gimmicks. I’ve seen you with the new recruits.” Merlin sniffed. 

“I maybe kinda agree about the poison heels,” Tequila conceded, “but I like them umbrellas. Don’t normally carry around an umbrella. But the dart-gun-armoured-whatever ones you guys got are pretty awesome. And gettin’ used to carryin’ one around meant I didn’t get wet when it rained yesterday.” 

Merlin rolled his eyes. “More importantly,” he said testily, “there’s really no reason to install a rail gun into an Aston Martin.” 

Harry looked curiously at Tequila, who made a helpless gesture. “Aw shucks. I mean. If I’m now James fuckin’ Bond, I ain’t James fuckin’ Bond without a bitchin’ car, yeah?” 

Americans sometimes still gave Harry a headache. He rubbed his fingertips against his temple, briefly closing his good eye. Marshalling a response, he tensed instead as the door to his office opened. Before his desk, Tequila eased his hand away from the holster at his hip, grinning broadly. “Jack? Didn’t know you were flyin’ in, man.” 

“Good to see you,” Whiskey said, sauntering in, shaking hands. “Catch up later?” 

“Sure.” Tequila grabbed Merlin by the elbow when he started to argue. “C’mon, kid. I’ll buy you a drink or two and explain to you why I really need that car, yeah?” 

Merlin shot Harry a pleading look, but was quickly hustled out of the office. Whiskey closed the door behind them. “By the way,” he said, “feel free to ignore Tequila when he makes tech requests. Ginger does.” 

“I know. She gave me a full debrief of his tendencies.” 

“Good on her.” Whiskey slouched into the visitor’s chair before Harry’s desk, making a show of looking around. “Nice new digs.” 

“They’ll do.” On bad days, walking into the office, being _Arthur_ —instead of Galahad—still gave Harry whiplash. “You didn’t tell me you were going to visit London.”

“Was kinda meant to be a surprise. Ginger said it’s your birthday tomorrow, according to the records you filed with Statesman.” 

Harry blinked. He’d forgotten. Birthdays were one and the same to him. To cover his surprise, he said, “What happened to Chupacabra?”

“Agent Rum’s looking after him. Lost a bet.” Whiskey smirked. “Are you gonna take a day off, or what? Take the rest of today off too.”

“This is really not a good time,” Harry said regretfully, “though I appreciate the sentiment.”

“Bet that’s what you said every year for the last fifty years or something, eh? C’mon. I got a plan. Tonight we break into the National Gallery.” 

Harry checked his watch. “It doesn’t close for a couple of hours yet, if there was something you wanted to see.” 

Whiskey started to speak, then he stopped, and stared keenly at Harry instead. Finally, he tipped back his chair, propping his heels up on Harry’s desk. “So. What’s wrong now?”

“Nothing’s wrong. We’ve just started to run a profit. We’ve filled the Lancelot and Percival seats and—”

“I don’t mean _business_ ,” Whiskey cut in. “Your boy was here the other day, wasn’t he? Ginger mentioned it to me.” 

“You really should allow her to transition to a full Agent role.” 

“I don’t allow shit. I’m just one vote.”

“You’re a senior, well-respected agent.”

“Yeah well, and it’s the opinion of this ‘senior, well-respected agent’ that somebody whose trackers require vaginal or anal insertion to work is somebody who maybe doesn’t have the right kinda imagination to be a full agent. Also, stop changing the subject.”

“Yes, Eggsy came by. What of it?” 

“Still Galahad?”

“Yes?” 

Whiskey tented his fingertips. “Kinda a fucking disaster waiting to happen, yeah?”

“We’ll see,” Harry said, though he agreed, in a way. Still. Eggsy had always had a way of skewing logic and reason where Harry was concerned. “Tequila’s doing well.” 

“I heard. We talk. So you really want to spend your birthday working, like a sad bastard.” 

Harry sighed. “I’m doing well, I really am. I appreciate you checking on me, but it truly wasn’t necessary.” 

“All right, that’s it.” Whiskey got to his feet. “Get up. Don’t make me make you. C’mon. Up.” 

“Where to?”

“Gallery.” 

“Two hours is really not enough time to fully appreciate the National Gallery,” Harry said, though he got reluctantly to his feet. “And no, we aren’t going to break in after hours.” 

“Yeah, yeah. I heard. Maybe we do dinner instead. There’s a place that Agent Brandy really likes that’s a bit of a drive out. Called the Fat Chicken?”

“The Fat _Duck_ ,” Harry said, pulling a face, “and you can’t just get a booking on the fly.” 

“Says you,” Whiskey said cheerfully, grabbing Harry by the elbow. He was texting on the way out, and through the brief cab ride to the Gallery.

Harry relaxed once they got in, even with the crowds. Whiskey was trying to look at paintings in sequence, so Harry slipped away to find his favourite. It was rude, perhaps, but he hadn’t been expecting to play host today, and, fine, he’d been a little out of sorts since Eggsy’s visit. He located Raphael’s _Vision of a Knight_ by memory and stood before it, hands folded behind his back, ignoring the tourists who tried to edge around him with their phones, angling to take a picture of the painting once they saw Raphael’s name. 

Eventually, Whiskey appeared at his shoulder. “Place is closing soon.”

“I know.”

Whiskey peered at the painting. “Favourite?”

“Here, yes.” 

“Some guy and two girlfriends?” Whiskey grinned when Harry sighed. “Just telling it as it is.”

“Some would say this painting represents the ideal attributes of a knight. The book, the flower, the sword… a scholar, a lover, a soldier.” Things to live by. Or so he'd once thought.

“Sleeping on the job with his horse run off?” 

“Not a fan of the Old Masters, are we?” Harry asked dryly. 

Whiskey shrugged. “I like art. I mean, I don’t make a study of it, and I don’t see why some of it is worth so goddamned much, but sure.” 

“And what’s your favourite?” 

“Mm. I like things with some power in it. Some pain. Ai Weiwei’s _Remembering_ , for instance. I flew to Munich to see it for myself.” 

“I’m not familiar with the piece.” 

“No, didn’t think you would be,” Whiskey said, smiling. It wasn’t a gentle smile, or a kind one. “Figured that something like this would be more your style.” He nodded at the painting. “C’mon. Dinner’s in an hour and it’s a bit of a drive to this duck restaurant. Car's at my hotel, pretty close by.” 

“It’s not a duck restaurant. And how in the world did you get a booking at such short notice?”

“Brandy’s got her ways.” Whiskey grimaced. “Really not a duck restaurant? Here’s me getting my hopes up for nothing. I like duck. The hell do you call yourself the Fat Duck if you don’t serve duck?” 

“His specialty is a snail congee, I believe,” Harry said, and smiled as Whiskey shot him a look of horror. “After you.”

#

There was, indeed, no duck, and Whiskey prodded suspiciously at several courses before trying them, but was mellow and tipsy enough at the end that Harry took over as designated driver. Whiskey had rented a silver Aston Martin Vanquish—what _was_ it with American agents and Aston Martins—and he dozed off in the front passenger seat as Harry drove them back to London.

Whiskey woke up with a start on the road as his phone beeped, and blinked for a moment, disoriented, before relaxing and turning the alarm off. “Happy birthday, you sad bastard,” he said, yawning, and curled back up on the seat. 

“Thanks,” Harry murmured, once he heard Whiskey start snoring again. Whiskey woke up once Harry parked the car in the garage of his new Chelsea townhouse, though he grumbled and shoved absently at Harry when Harry opened the door on his side.

“I can’t move. That was way too much food. Leave me to die.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” Harry unbuckled Whiskey’s seatbelt. “And it was your idea.” 

“Brandy didn’t warn me,” Whiskey moaned, though he let Harry help him out of the car. “Think I’m gonna be sick." He fell silent again as they got up the stairs, and dozed off once Harry poured him into bed. It was Harry’s bed, not the guest room’s, though when Harry removed Whiskey’s shoes and jacket and started to get up, Whiskey grabbed his shirt, grumbling. 

“At least you liked dinner, I think,” Whiskey said, once Harry had changed into sleepwear and come back to bed. 

“I appreciate the effort.”

Whiskey opened his eyes, frowning. “So you didn’t like it.” 

“Meaning yes, I enjoyed myself and thank you,” Harry said, shifting over to kiss Whiskey on the mouth, which got a slow smirk and a hand in his hair, tugging pointedly downwards. “Really? Whose birthday is it again?”

“Who paid for dinner?”

“Your concept of affection is terribly transactional,” Harry told him, though he set his glasses aside, worked out Whiskey’s godawful belt buckle and unbuttoned his trousers. 

Whiskey purred, arching once Harry eased out his cock, and skated his fingers down the back of Harry’s neck. Usually, Harry would be more conscious of a lover’s pleasures, but it was his birthday, after all, so he teased instead, pressing little kitten licks until Whiskey growled and twitched against him, then he nuzzled the thick root, breathing in the warm musk. Strangely, Whiskey didn’t complain, stroking Harry’s hair instead, the back of his skull, his cheek. Harry licked him until his cock was nice and wet and leaking at the tip, until powerful thighs shook a little against Harry’s shoulders. When he kissed the cap, Whiskey let out a low, hoarse moan, twisting, stuffing fingers into his mouth. 

“Don’t do that,” Harry said, and pressed the heel of his hand hard against the root of Whiskey’s cock. 

Whiskey flinched, though he obeyed, and spat out something in Spanish, his hands twisting into the sheets. With Eggsy it was easy to forget that he was dangerous, what with that lovely boyish smile, that warm and achingly obvious hero worship, so close and yet so far. With Whiskey, Harry could only read the lines of another apex predator, a hunter whose long fingers pressed against his pulse with curiosity rather than tenderness. Whiskey hissed as Harry swallowed what he could and made a fist around the rest, pulling roughly. 

Harry had been out of practice since New York and maybe it showed. The weight in his mouth was welcome, against his tongue, intruding against the back of his throat. He breathed hard through his nose, felt Whiskey shake against him, cursing in a tangled whine, only for the words to stutter into a shout as Harry hollowed out his cheeks and sucked. He drank Whiskey down afterwards, licking him clean, and was sleepy as he nudged back up the bed onto his flank. He pulled Whiskey up against him when Whiskey tried to reach for his cock, yawning, and Whiskey stilled. When Harry started to doze off, he was dimly aware of a blanket getting tugged up over his arm, and someone’s mouth pressed against his throat, warm breath tickling over skin. 

They woke to Mister Kippers trying to worm in between them in the morning, whimpering as he was shooed off the bed. Whiskey groaned, pulling a pillow over his head and rolling onto his flank. “I hate dogs.” 

“You let him stay at your apartment.” Harry shifted over, nuzzling the short, stiff hairs at the back of Whiskey’s neck. 

“Mmhmm. And every morning I thought I’d finally wake up to Chupacabra losing his shit and murdering the smelly thing.” Whiskey relaxed as Harry settled against his back. 

“So when do you have to fly back?”

“Few days. Or when the cat maims the catsitter. Not sure. Why?” 

“You might like the Tate,” Harry said doubtfully. “We could go there today.” 

“After hours?”

“I don’t believe it’s quite worth _that_ amount of effort.” 

“You’re a fucking snob, that’s what you are,” Whiskey drawled, though he was amused enough to roll over and nudge a kiss over Harry’s mouth. His playfulness faded when Harry merely watched him soberly. “What?”

“How ‘close’ is your actual name to ‘Jack’?” 

Whiskey sighed. Then he sat up, carding his fingers through his hair, yawning, his shirt deliciously rumpled. “Matters to you, does it?” 

Harry nodded. He wasn’t sure how to explain. He had known Merlin’s real name, and Percival’s, and Bors’. Lancelot’s and Galahad’s, both old and new. Names meant little in the nature of their world. And yet, in bed with the only person who knew and cared that Harry had been born this day over half a century ago, ‘close enough’ was not nearly enough.

“Jack’s my name,” Whiskey said, pensive, “and the rest of it doesn’t matter anymore.”

Harry tugged Whiskey back down. They kissed, measuring time, until Whiskey settled comfortably against him, stifling another yawn. “Do you need spare clothes?” Harry asked.

“Nope. Bags are in the back of the car.” 

“I don’t have coffee in the house, but there are some decent cafes down the street.” 

Whiskey grinned. “And then the Tate?”

“If we must,” Harry said, with a show of reluctance, and Whiskey chuckled, leaning back up for a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: manic_intent  
> tumblr: manic-intent.tumblr.com  
> \--  
> Since my own cat's getting on with age I've also been trying to brush his teeth more, an endeavour which involves waiting until he's about to sleep. Though he doesn't usually do much more than try and escape. He's getting used to it now though, which is a relief.
> 
> I don't believe in naming a non-fish pet the same name so Mr Kippers it is. 
> 
> http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/driving-while-latino_us_57ed6ce4e4b07f20daa1052f
> 
> Yes I love Ben Whishaw. :3 
> 
> https://www.khanacademy.org/humanities/global-culture/global-art-architecture/a/ai-weiwei-remembering-and-the-politics-of-dissent
> 
> Dinner in the Fat Duck takes about 4-5 hours so let’s just say it took 4 this time round and they started fairly early.


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